Marion Fay: A Novel

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER V.

  THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE.

  When the Friday morning came in Paradise Row both father anddaughter, at No. 17, were full of thought as they came down tobreakfast. To each of them it was a day laden with importance.The father's mind had been full of the matter ever since the newshad been told to him. He had received Marion's positive assurancethat such a marriage was altogether impossible with something ofimpatience till she had used that argument as to her own health,which was so powerful with her. On hearing that he had said nothing,but had gone away. Nor had he spoken a word on the subject since.But his mind had been full of it. He had lost his wife,--and all hislittle ones, as she had said; but he had declared to himself withstrong confidence that this child was to be spared to him. He wasa man whose confidence was unbounded in things as to which he hadresolved. It was as though he had determined, in spite of Fate, inspite of God, that his Marion should live. And she had grown up underhis eyes, if not robust, by no means a weak creature. She did herwork about the house, and never complained. In his eyes she was verybeautiful; but he saw nothing in her colour which was not to him asign of health. He told himself that it was nothing that she, havingseen so many die in her own family, should condemn herself; but forhimself he repudiated the idea, and declared to himself that sheshould not become an early victim. So thinking, he exercised his mindconstantly during those few days in considering whether there was anyadequate cause for the refusal which Marion had determined to givethis man.

  He, in truth, was terribly anxious that this grand stroke of fortuneshould be acknowledged and accepted. He wanted nothing from the younglord himself,--except, perhaps, that he might be the young lord'sfather-in-law. But he did want it all, long for it all, pant for itall, on behalf of his girl. If all these good things came in hisgirl's way because of her beauty, her grace, and her merit, whyshould they not be accepted? Others not only accepted these thingsfor their daughters, but hunted for them, cheated for them, did allmean things in searching for them,--and had their tricks and theirlies regarded by the world quite as a matter of course,--because itwas natural that parents should be anxious for their children. He hadnot hunted. He had not cheated. The thing had come in his girl's way.The man had found her to be the most lovely, the most attractive, themost loveable among all whom he had seen. And was this glory to bethrown away because she had filled her mind with false fears? Thoughshe were to die, must not the man take his chance with her, as doother husbands in marrying other wives?

  He had been thinking of this, and of nothing but this, during thedays which had intervened since Lord Hampstead had been in ParadiseRow. He had not said a word to his daughter,--had indeed not daredto say a word to her, so abhorrent to him was the idea of discussingwith her the probabilities of her own living or dying. And he wasdoubtful, too, whether any words coming from him at the present mightnot strengthen her in her resolution. If the man really loved herhe might prevail. His words would be stronger to overcome her thanany that could be spoken by her father. And then, too, if he reallyloved her, the one repulse would not send him back for ever. It might,perhaps, be better that any arguments from her father should bepostponed till she should have heard her lover's arguments. But hismind was so filled with the whole matter that he could not bringhimself to assure himself certainly that his decision was the best.Though he was one who rarely needed counsel from others, on thisoccasion he did need it, and now it was his purpose to ask counsel ofMrs. Roden before the moment should have come which might be fatal tohis hopes.

  As this was the day immediately following Christmas, there was nobusiness for him in the City. In order that the weary holiday mightbe quicker consumed, they breakfasted at No. 17 an hour later thanwas usual. After breakfast he got through the morning as well as hecould with his newspaper, and some record of stocks and prices whichhe had brought with him from the City. So he remained, fretful, doingnothing, pretending to read, but with his mind fixed upon the onesubject, till it was twelve o'clock, at which hour he had determinedto make his visit. At half-past one they were to dine, each of themhaving calculated, without, however, a word having been spoken, thatLord Hampstead would certainly not come till the ceremony of dinnerwould be over. Though the matter was so vitally important to both ofthem, not a word concerning it was spoken.

  At twelve o'clock he took up his hat, and walked out. "You will beback punctually for dinner, father?" she asked. He made his promisesimply by nodding his head, and then left the room. Five minutesafterwards he was closeted with Mrs. Roden in her drawing-room.Having conceived the difficulty of leading up to the subjectgradually, he broke into it at once. "Marion has told thee that thisyoung man will be here to-day?" She simply assented. "Hast thouadvised her as to what she should say?"

  "She has not seemed to want advice."

  "How should a girl not want advice in so great a matter?"

  "How, indeed? But yet she has needed none."

  "Has she told thee," he asked, "what it is in her mind to do?"

  "I think so."

  "Has she said that she would refuse the man?"

  "Yes; that certainly was her purpose."

  "And given the reasons?" he said, almost trembling as he asked thequestion.

  "Yes, she gave her reasons."

  "And didst thou agree with her?" Before she could reply to this Mrs.Roden felt herself compelled to pause. When she thought of that onestrongest reason, fully as she agreed with it, she was unable totell the father of the girl that she did so. She sat looking at him,wanting words with which she might express her full concurrence withMarion without plunging a dagger into the other's heart. "Then thoudidst agree with her?" There was something terrible in the intensityand slowness of the words as he repeated the question.

  "On the whole I did," she said. "I think that unequal marriages arerarely happy."

  "That was all?" he asked. Then when she was again silent, he madethe demand which was so important to him. "Did she say aught of herhealth in discussing all this with thee?"

  "She did, Mr. Fay."

  "And thou?"

  "It was a subject, my friend, on which I could not speak to her. Allthat was said came from her. Her mind was so fully made up, as I havesaid before, no advice from me could avail anything. With some peopleit is easy to see that whether you agree with them or differ fromthem it is impossible to turn them."

  "But to me thou canst say whether thou hast agreed with her. Yes; Iknow well that the subject is one difficult to talk of in a father'shearing. But there are things which should be talked of, though theheart should break." After another pause he continued; "Is there,thinkest thou, sufficient cause in the girl's health to bid her severherself from these delights of life and customary habits which theLord has intended for His creatures?" At every separate question hepaused, but when she was silent he went on with other questions. "Isthere that in her looks, is there that in her present condition oflife, which make it needful for thee, her friend, or for me, herfather, to treat her as though she were already condemned by the handof the Lord to an early grave?" Then, again, looking almost fiercelyinto her face, he went on with his examination, "That is what thouart doing."

  "Not I;--not I."

  "Yes, thou, my friend; thou, with all thy woman's softness in thyheart! It is what I shall do, unless I bring myself to tell her thather fears are vain. To me she has said that that is her reason. It isnot that she cannot love the man. Has she not said as much to thee?"

  "Yes; truly."

  "And art thou not assenting to it unless thou tell'st her that herfancies are not only vain, but wrong? Though thou hast not spoken theword, has not thy silence assented as fully as words could do? Answerme at any rate to that."

  "It is so," she said.

  "Is it then necessary to condemn her? Art thou justified in thine ownthoughts in bidding her regard herself as one doomed?" Again therewas a pause. What was she to say? "Thou art aware that in our poorhousehold she does all that the strictest economy would demand froman active
mother of a family? She is never idle. If she suffers Ido not see it. She takes her food, if not with strong appetite, yetregularly. She is upright, and walks with no languor. No doctor comesnear her. If like others she requires change of air and scene, whatcan give her such chance as this marriage? Hast thou not heard thatfor girls of feeble health marriage itself will strengthen them? Isshe such that thou as her friend must bid her know that she mustperish like a blighted flower? Must I bid her to hem and stitch herown winding-sheet? It comes to that if no word be said to her toturn her from this belief. She has seen them all die,--one afteranother,--one after another, till the idea of death, of death forherself as well as for them, has gotten hold of her. And yet it willbe the case that one in a family shall escape. I have asked amongthose who know, and I have found that it is so. The Lord does notstrike them all, always. But if she thinks that she is stricken thenshe will fall. If she goes forth to meet Death on the path, Deathwill come half way to encounter her. Dost thou believe of me that itis because the man is a noble lord that I desire this marriage?"

  "Oh no, Mr. Fay."

  "He will take my child away from me. She will then be but little tome. What want I with lords, who for the few days of active life thatare left to me would not change my City stool for any seat that anylord can give me? But I shall know that she has had her chance in theworld, and has not been unnecessarily doomed--to an early grave!"

  "What would you have me do?"

  "Go to her, and tell her that she should look forward, with trust inGod, to such a state of health as He may vouchsafe to give her. Herthoughts are mostly with her God. Bid her not shorten His mercies.Bid her not to tell herself that she can examine His purposes. Bidher do in this as her nature bids her, and, if she can love this man,give herself into his arms and leave the rest to the Lord."

  "But he will be there at once."

  "If he be there, what harm? Thou canst go when he comes to the door.I shall go to her now, and we shall dine together, and then at once Iwill leave her. When you see me pass the window then thou canst takethine occasion." So saying, without waiting for a promise, he lefther and went back to his own house.

  And Marion's heart had been full of many thoughts that morning,--someof them so trifling in their object, that she herself would wonderat herself because that they should occupy her. How should she bedressed to receive her lover? In what words first should she speak tohim,--and in what sort? Should she let any sign of love escape fromher? Her resolution as to her great purpose was so fixed that therewas no need for further thought on that matter. It was on the littlethings that she was intent. How far might she indulge herself inallowing some tenderness to escape her? How best might she save himfrom any great pain, and yet show him that she was proud that he hadloved her? In what dress she might receive him, in that would she sitat table with her father. It was Christmas time, and the occasionwould justify whatever of feminine smartness her wardrobe possessed.As she brought out from its recess the rich silk frock, still allbut new, in which he had first seen her, she told herself that shewould probably have worn it for her father's sake, had no lover beencoming. On the day before, the Christmas Day, she had worn it atchurch. And the shoes with the pretty buckles, and the sober but yethandsome morsel of lace which was made for her throat,--and which shehad not been ashamed to wear at that memorable dinner,--they wereall brought out. It was Christmas, and her father's presence wouldsurely have justified them all! And would she not wish to leave inher lover's eyes the memory of whatever prettiness she might havepossessed? They were all produced. But when the moment came forarraying herself they were all restored to their homes. She would bethe simple Quaker girl as she was to be found there on Monday, onTuesday, and on Wednesday. It would be better that he should know howlittle there was for him to lose.

  Zachary Fay ate his dinner almost without a word. She, though shesmiled on him and tried to look contented, found it almost impossibleto speak. She uttered some little phrases which she intended to bepeculiar to the period of the year; but she felt that her father'smind was intent on what was coming, and she discontinued her efforts.She found it hardly possible to guess at the frame of his mind, sosilent had he been since first he had yielded to her when she assuredhim of her purpose. But she had assured him, and he could not doubther purpose. If he were unhappy for the moment it was needful thathe should be unhappy. There could be no change, and therefore it waswell that he should be silent. He had hardly swallowed his dinnerwhen he rose from his chair, and, bringing in his hat from thepassage, spoke a word to her before he departed. "I am going into theCity, Marion," he said. "I know it is well that I should be absentthis afternoon. I shall return to tea. God bless thee, my child."

  Marion, rising from her chair, kissed his lips and cheeks, andaccompanied him to the door. "It will be all well, my father," shesaid; "it will be all well, and your child will be happy."

  About half-an-hour afterwards there came a knock at the door, andMarion for a moment thought that her lover was already there. But itwas Mrs. Roden who came up to her in the drawing-room. "Am I in theway, Marion?" she asked. "I will be gone in a minute; but perhaps Ican say a word first."

  "Why should you be in the way?"

  "He is coming."

  "Yes, I suppose so. He said that he would come. But what if he come?You and he are old friends."

  "I would not be here to interrupt him. I will escape when we hear theknock. Oh, Marion!"

  "What is it, Mrs. Roden? You are sad, and something troubles you?"

  "Yes, indeed. There is something which troubles me sorely. This loverof yours?"

  "It is fixed, dear friend; fixed as fate. It does not trouble me. Itshall not trouble me. Why should it be a trouble? Suppose I had neverseen him!"

  "But you have seen him, my child."

  "Yes, indeed; and whether that be for good or evil, either to him orto me, it must be accepted. Nothing now can alter that. But I think,indeed, that it is a blessing. It will be something to me to rememberthat such a one as he has loved me. And for him--"

  "I would speak now of you, Marion."

  "I am contented."

  "It may be, Marion, that in this concerning your health you should bealtogether wrong."

  "How wrong?"

  "What right have you or I to say that the Lord has determined toshorten your days."

  "Who has said so?"

  "It is on that theory that you are acting."

  "No;--not on that; not on that alone. Were I as strong as are othergirls,--as the very strongest,--I would do the same. Has my fatherbeen with you?"

  "Yes, he has."

  "My poor father! But it is of no avail. It would be wrong, and I willnot do it. If I am to die, I must die. If I am to live, let me live.I shall not die certainly because I have resolved to send this finelover away. However weak Marion Fay may be, she is strong enough notto pine for that."

  "If there be no need?"

  "No need? What was it you said of unequal marriages? What was thestory that you told me of your own? If I love this man, of whom amI to think the most? Could it be possible that I should be to himwhat a wife ought to be to her husband? Could I stand nobly on hishearth-rug, and make his great guests welcome? Should I be such aone that every day he should bless the kind fortune which had givenhim such a woman to help him to rule his house? How could I go fromthe littleness of these chambers to walk through his halls withoutshowing that I knew myself to be an intruder? And yet I should beso proud that I should resent the looks of all who told me by theirfaces that I was so. He has done wrong in allowing himself to loveme. He has done wrong in yielding to his passion, and telling me ofhis love. I will be wiser and nobler than he. If the Lord will helpme, if my Saviour will be on my side, I will not do wrong. I did notthink that you, Mrs. Roden, would turn against me."

  "Turn against thee, Marion? I to turn against thee!"

  "You should strengthen me."

  "It seems to me that you want no strength from others. It is for yourpoor father that
I would say a word."

  "I would not have father believe that my health has aught to do withit. You know,--you know what right I have to think that I am fit tomarry and to hope to be the mother of children. It needs not thathe should know. Let it suffice for him to be told that I am notequal to this greatness. A word escaped me in speaking to him, andI repent myself that I so spoke to him. But tell him,--and tell himtruly,--that were my days fixed here for the next fifty years, wereI sure of the rudest health, I would not carry my birth, my manners,my habits into that young lord's house. How long would it be, Mrs.Roden, before he saw some little trick that would displease him? Someword would be wrongly spoken, some garment would be ill-folded, someawkward movement would tell the tale,--and then he would feel that hehad done wrong to marry the Quaker's daughter. All the virtues underthe sun cannot bolster up love so as to stand the battery of onetouch of disgust. Tell my father that, and tell him that I have donewell. Then you can tell him also, that, if God shall so choose it, Ishall live a strong old maid for many years, to think night and dayof his goodness to me,--of his great love."

  Mrs. Roden, as she had come across from her own house, had known thather mission would fail. To persuade another against one's own beliefis difficult in any case, but to persuade Marion Fay on such a matteras this was a task beyond the eloquence of man or woman. She had madeup her mind that she must fail utterly when the knock came at thedoor. She took the girl in her arms and kissed her without furtherattempt. She would not even bid her think of it once again, as mighthave been so easy at parting. "I will go into your room while hepasses," she said. As she did so Lord Hampstead's voice was heard atthe door.